Saarebas
by Ultimate Warrior
Summary: An immortal Harry Potter, Master of Death, leaves his own world after outliving all his friends and family. He arrives in Thedas and is found by the Qunari.
1. Chapter 1

This is one of the many little ideas that come to me in passing but which I never really get anywhere with.

The main premise of it was a crossover where Harry Potter falls to that unforeseen fate of being immortal because he became master of death. After seeing all his friends and family grow old and die he falls into despair and, one way or another, gets transfer into Thedas – the Dragon Age World. There he is found by the Qunari who discover his magic and bind him, turn him into one of their mages. Then I intended that he would eventually be freed by Isabela and her pirate crew and end up joining them, placing him in a position to take part in the events of either of the first two games.

So the following is just kind of general framework that premise, and if anyone is interested in taking up the idea themselves then feel free to do so, but this shall go no further under my direction.

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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/Saarebas\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

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Saarebas.

Such a strange little word, from a language I never knew existed before I came to this place. What does it make you think of? A flower perhaps? Some kind of dish cooked by a long forgotten tribe in some inaccessible part of the world?

It's got a nice sound, and a good rhythm, it's a pleasant word to say. It _rolls_ of the tongue, as they say.

Such an innocent little word.

How I hated it.

Slave. That's what it means. Prisoner. Dangerous beast, approach at your peril. Ha! You can just see it now, cant you? "Do not feed the Saarebas! He will bite." Like some animal in a zoo.

The horned bastards gave me this name when they found me. I can't remember how long ago. They saw I had magic and chained me, leashed me, labelled me and enslaved me.

And oh! How _well_ they do it The heavy collar around my neck, the chains that bind it to my hands and feet, and that godforsaken rod! I can do nothing while they wield it. I am nothing but a tool for their use, nothing but a plaything for their desires, a pet of the Arvaarad.

The bastards.

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Today the slaughter began. The Saarebas were released to fight the enemy of the horny race. And, wouldn't you know it, they're wizards!

The irony.

Fighting free wizards with your own slave army of wizards. Whatever you can say about my captors you got to admit they know irony.

I lost track of the people I've killed. Hundreds? Thousands? Who can say? I am just a tool of the Arvaarad. They point and say kill and I kill. I can do nothing else. The damn collar and rod control me.

I cannot even feel remorse for lives I had ended, nor the places I have destroyed. Unless Arvaarad will it I am nothing but their puppet.

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I have had many Arvaarads. This is unusual.

A Saarebas without an Arvaarad is supposed to be killed. But they cannot kill me. They have tried. Many times. It is impossible.

I have had many Arvaarads. I cannot recall their faces. Some were cold, some were brutal, some were dutiful, some were cruel, but they all form one face in my mind, the horned face of my keepers, my tormentors.

I do not mourn the death of an Arvaarad, I welcome it.

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The hope of freedom has dwindled. The long years have passed uncounted. I stopped counting them many seasons ago.

I have almost forgotten who I was – who I am. It was so long ago, a different world.

When I dream I see faces, shadows of the life I once lived, the people I once knew, the friends I loved and fought for. I grasp at these memories as though they are a lifeline, a thing to keep me sane in my unending torment, and perhaps they are

I often wonder what happened to them. I'm sure I must have known once but it was so long ago.

So very long ago…

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Such a battle! I have not seen it's like in many seasons.

The walls were strong, the city seemingly impregnable. It's defenders stout and brave, flinging themselves ceaselessly against our host. Brave, but futile.

Our numbers were fewer, but our magic was stronger. Within a night the mighty city falls, its people enslaved and converted, and my hands soak in blood. I shall never be free of it.

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My new Arvaarad is odd. The strangest one I have ever had.

In public he is what an Arvaarad is supposed to be. Controlling, cold, even cruel to his charge, yet he spends the late hours of the evening talking to me, telling me about his life, all his hopes and fears, all his doubts.

I have never known one like it.

It is bizarre, but not unwelcome. I like him.

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It is a crumb of comfort to me to realise that even after all this time, a slave to the horned demons I call my masters, that I still do not understand their culture and way of life.

A small act of rebellion perhaps, but one which I embrace with open arms.

My Arvaarad tried to teach me the ways of his people. Heh, it was a battle lost before it began.

He was not the first to fail, and I doubt he will be the last.

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I have a new name, so I am told.

My Arvaarad, ever the gossip, informs me that I am called _the Ancient One_

I have, I am told, outlived many of their leaders, and none can remember a time when I was not here. What records they have of me can be traced back to the Tevinter Imperium.

If I knew what that meant I might be impressed.

None speak this name openly, for officially I am Saarebas and nothing more, but there is a fear behind that name. What manner of creature am I that I am undying? They fear to know the answer and hide or avert their gaze when I am near.

My Arvaarad seems to treat this as a badge of honour. For both of us. Foolish Arvaarad.

He does not know that this means they will only try harder to kill me.

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My Arvaarad is dead. Killed by his own people, though ones who held different beliefs it seems

How strange it is that this man was my keeper, my tormentor who held the keys to my freedom but never used them, who kept me in bondage and used me as a tool, as a weapon, yet I am saddened by his death.

He was a kind person. Alone in all my memories of this place did he offer me any kind of friendship. I liked him, and I shall mourn him.

Death is familiar to me after all these years, but even so I am struck by how pitiable it is. One moment you live, the next you die. A light snuffed out in an instance, though not my own. I shall live forever, and I shall live in regret.

My Arvaarad seemed to know that, to understand it. He sought to help me accept this as my lot and live on according to the teachings of his religion. Another forlorn hope. Foolish Arvaarad.

It seems almost unworthy of him to remember him as Avaarad. He deserves more than a title to remember him by. I shall call him Phil the Inquisitive, bringer of conversation and gossip.

He would have hated that…

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Seasons come and seasons go and still I remain a slave.

Arvaarad after Arvaarad, battle after battle, death after death.

So the wheel turns yet still nothing changes.

Such is life.

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The rod is broken.

After all these years. Ha! After all these years hoping and dreaming of freedom I never thought it would come.

We were sailing to some far off land when we were attacked by pirates. I was released from my cell to fend them off and I had killed several of them when a knife struck Arvaarad's hand and forced him to drop the rod. In the melee it was smashed.

It is a wonder this never happened before, or perhaps its hold had been weakened over time and this was merely the breaking point.

I feel no compulsion, no force controlling my movements nor restricting my mind and body. And magic! Oh the magic! I feel it return to me in quantities I had forgotten possible. And all mine! Mine to control, mine to wield as I wish, when I wish, how I wish.

It is a rush.

I turn to Arvaarad. He is shouting his orders at me, invoking his people and their religion, demanding I fulfil my role and do his bidding. I hated him, as I hated all Arvaarad, and I did not mourn his death, I welcomed it, I instigated it.

I felt the magic stir the air, vibrating as it surrounded him, lifted him from the deck and tore him slow limb from limb, muscle from muscle, bone from bone, atom from atom, until there was nothing left. I let him feel every moment of it. A drop in the ocean to the suffering I have faced at their hands.

The pirates want to escape. They are frightened, just liked the horned bastards who cower from me having seen the fate of Arvaarad. I spare them a glance before turning to the remains of my horned captors. Their deaths are quick and my revenge is sated for the moment.

I feel my magic run along my body, breaking the chains that have marked my long years of slavery, I throw away the collar and raise my hand to my side. A knife is summoned to my grip, I use it to cut away the stitches which bind my lips shut – a fancy of my latest, no, my _final_ Arvaarad - and take a deep breath.

"I am free"

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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/End\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

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	2. Chapter 2

This is further expanding on the idea with glimpses of Harry's time as a Saarebas from the Qunari perspective. Again, this is merely the framework as I don't feel I'm able to write this story properly so if anyone is interested in using the idea then feel free to do so.

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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/Saarebas\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/The Book of the Ancient One\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

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Appearances can deceive. This we must remember.

Those who appear weak can present far greater danger than any that appear strong. We learned this lesson long ago.

Evil seeps into the world unbidden, unwanted and by most unchecked. It seeks out the weakest amongst us and tempts them, appeals to them, seduces them, then destroys them. Basra Vashedan of all races have proven this, as have we of the Qun.

More than any other it is the Ancient One who proves it.

In appearance he is human in form, adolescent, thin and scrawny, weak. To look upon him one could not see the true danger that lurks there. He is Saarebas by necessity but not by choice.

He came into this world through the forbidden realm of the dead, and brought with him the demons that dwell in that place. Such carnage and ruin was wrought in its wake that words alone could not describe it.

Many perished in the struggle against this abomination. Even the Arishok would fall. It was then the Ancient One revealed himself, and all was laid bare before him. The power of his magic was incomparable, irresistible. He alone succeeded where our greatest warriors and mightiest armies had failed. Yet in the effort he had exhausted himself.

Though he had saved our people he was corrupted by the evils of magic, he was a creature of the forbidden land, he could not be suffered to dwell in our own unchecked. Such was the verdict of the Arisqun.

He would be put to death, but death would not come.

No matter what the wound, how grievous or mortal it would have been to any being of flesh, it made little difference. He would heal and restore himself within hours and live again. The more serious the wound the longer it would take him to recover but not even dismemberment was permanent.

If he could not be killed, then he must be bound. To make this creature a Saarebas was the only choice.

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The Ancient One is unique to even the Saarebas. Such is the danger he represents.

Alone of all Saarebas does he require multiple Arvaarad. Four permanently guard him; three more watch him when he is moved. The Arisqun granted the utmost importance upon him. He is bound, shackled not just by the chains he bares around his neck and limb but by others which hold him in place in his chamber. Eight, thick, heavy chains hold him immobile.

Never should he be released. Never should our need be so great as to summon him.

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Our order is without name. We are Arvaarad, the same but more. We are charged with the greatest curse of our people.

The Ancient One has no need for sustenance.

He does not eat, he does not drink, he does not grow weary.

These traits betray him.

Ever we stand vigilant. Ever we guard. Should we falter in our role all will be lost.

Years are without measure in this task.

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By will of the Arishok the Saarebas march. The Ariqun is not in agreement, but the will of the Arishok must be followed.

We march against the Imprium. It is believed that the Saarebas will prove most useful in battle against Bas Saarebas who rule that land.

So too will march the Ancient one.

Such power should not be squandered, but even so it must be controlled.

The Arvaraad will be ready.

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We are the Arvaard of Seheron.

This land we claimed in battle from Bas Saarebas.

In this place we guard our greatest curse.

The tomb of the Ancient One.

Our numbers dwindle with every year that passes.

Many forget the importance of our role, of our task.

But we remember.

Ever we stand vigilant, ever we guard.

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There is a strange feeling in the air. It is at the same time as full of anticipation as of fear, as full of awe as of terror. There is only one who can inspire such emotion amongst our people.

The Ancient One has come.

This spells doom for our enemies. None has stood before the might of the Ancient One and lived. Armies have fallen before him like leaves in the wind. Fortresses have crumbled at his slightest touch.

He is the Arvaarad's greatest weapon, but also their greatest curse.

The Vashedan fight well but they fall in numbers uncounted. Their defences break, their leaders fall, and the city is taken in one night of battle and bloodshed.

Little more than a glimpse of him is seen but all know he was here.

Greatest of the Saarebas.

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Betrayal.

By an Arvaarad, such an act performed is most detestable, its enactor the lowest of all trash.

It was foreseen.

He was not suited to the role. He had doubts, too many questions, too much pride. He was never a true Arvaarad. He was too susceptible, he was corrupted.

He had to die

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Our people have forgotten.

They do not remember how the Ancient One came into our world, nor how he came to be Saarebas. They look upon him as one of their own, a true follower of the Qun who has embraced his role.

They are fools.

Once we were an order, once our numbers were uncounted, now we have to a handful, the few Arvaarad, those who remained faithful to our task.

Soon we too shall be gone and none shall remember.

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The Ancient One has been summoned. The Arishok calls him to his aide in recovery of the stolen tome of the Prophet. We do not question his judgement, we do not question his orders, we must follow, we must obey, such is our fate.

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/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/End\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

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